Doctor, Thine Eyes Are Shaded
by LoverBoyWonder
Summary: Welcome to the Black Market AU, which revolves around the theme of dark doctors. Wilson has a secret that not even House knows...Princeton-Plainsboro, these are dark days indeed. ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey everyone! I haven't written anything in a while, and this is my most recent project. Welcome to the Black Market AU. It's a dark place. This isn't your mother's hospital. There aren't any pairings planned for this story right now, because I juts want to write a regular story. It's going to be multi-chaptered; I haven't finished writing it yet so I'm not sure where it will go. The rating may go up, but we'll see. I'll try to update it when I can, at least semi-regularly. Review and let me know if I should continue this or not. This is not the end.**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

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"Later, House," Wilson said with a sigh, leaving the older diagnostician's office. House yelled something to his receding back that the oncologist couldn't quite catch through the glass. Frankly, he didn't really care what the other man had said anyway. He had dying patients to see…Wilson smirked to himself, a smirk that rivaled even House's best grimace.

_Today is a good day_, Wilson thought, _because today I can finally finish this week's…project_. Not even House, Wilson's "best friend," knew about Wilson's "other job." No one did. Wilson hummed softly to himself as he walked down the hall, stopping to fix his hair as he caught sight of his reflection in a glass door.

Today his cancer patient would die—but it wouldn't be cancer that killed him.


	2. And So It Begins

**A/N Okay, so chapter one was just kind of a teaser. Here we go!**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

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Wilson was a big one for mercy. House would hurt someone if it would solve a puzzle. That's why House was a great diagnostician- and why Dr. James Wilson was a mercy killer. Wilson picked up his patient's clipboard to check up on their overnight report and their current medical status. The man had stage four lung cancer- _a smoker_, Wilson thought scornfully. _Well, it's his fault_, the oncologist justified to himself. _His fault he'll die, his fault he'll break hearts. His fault, not mine. Not mine at all._

Wilson took a few steps forward, towards the man's room. He stopped and looked around casually, fixing his collar. He slid the door open and stepped into the room, his eyes narrowing to slits as he approached the man's bed- _slowly, slowly_ –Wilson took a step. Then another. Then-

"Doctor Wilson?" Wilson must've jumped about three feet. "Uh, Doctor?" the nurse looked abashed. "Oh! Uh- yes?" Wilson asked, straightening his tie frantically. "You're not supposed to be on duty in this room this afternoon," she said, bemusement dusting her pretty features and clouding her eyes endearingly. Wilson might even have found her pretty, once upon a time- now he was too distracted by his_ jobs_, _plural_ to think about romance.

"Well, I had some free time, so I thought I could come take over from you, Nurse…Jennifer," Wilson said with his trademark charming grin, one of his eyebrows raising dashingly. _Great save, Jimmy,_ he congratulated himself in his mind. Nurse Jennifer's face lit up and her eyes cleared. "Great! Thanks, Doctor Wilson!" She gathered up her belongings, hurriedly marked up a chart which she handed to Wilson, and left with a wave. Wilson allowed himself a sigh of relief, and then turned back to the bed where the man lay sleeping. The man mumbled something, and then his eyes flickered open.

"Doctor?" the man rasped, the simple word taking much effort and causing the man obvious pain. "I'm here," Wilson said, taking the man's hand in his own. _Disgusting! He's all clammy._ "I was wondering," Wilson said softly, affecting his voice with as much compassion as he could muster. "Are you in a lot of pain? Do you need more morphine, or anything?" The man bared his teeth and laughed, a short, loud bark that abruptly turned into a hacking cough. Wilson hurried over to the bed, holding up a tray to catch the blood spewing from the patient's mouth. "Pain?" the man hissed. "I don't even know what is pain and what is normalcy anymore. End it, Doctor Wilson…end…it!…" he trailed off into another coughing fit. "I'm not allowed to do that, John, you know that," Wilson said with a frown. _Yes, yes, yes, I'll end it, don't worry!_ "Honestly, I shouldn't even be talking to you about it." "Please, Doctor," John begged. "I don't have anyone left to care about me. I just want the pain to stop. Can't you help me?" Wilson sighed and bent down to look John in the eyes. "I…really shouldn't…" "Doctor," John had steeled his voice as much as he could in order to speak the single word.

"Alright," Wilson murmured as he stood up from the bed. "Alright, John. You're sure you want this." It was a statement, not a question. _You're getting it anyway._ A small smile appeared on the man's face. Wilson adjusted the man's morphine dosage, patted his hand and left as the man's eyes drifted shut. Wilson slid the door shut behind him and walked over to the nurses' desk.

"Look," Wilson said in a soft voice to the nurse on duty. "John, in room 42b over there, isn't feeling too great today and I want to take care of him myself. Can you keep everyone out of there for me so I can give him my special attention?" "Sure, Doctor Wilson," the nurse smiled at him, "No problem." Wilson winked at her and headed off to get some lunch. House would probably find him and steal his food, but Wilson didn't mind.

_Yep, today is definitely a great day._


	3. He's Dead!

**A/N: Hey everyone; here's chapter 3, lucky you! I had some extra time and finished this bit. House makes an appearance, and...well, you'll see. Hopefully we'll start seeing some real action soon. House's witty repartee in this chapter was so much fun to write; I hope I capured the characters. Let me know! And, may I just add, I don't own House or any of the characters.**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

"Cough, migraines, visible rash on the inner arms and behind the knees. What d'you think, Wilson?" House asked before the younger doctor could even sit down. "Could be lupus," Wilson said matter-of-factly without looking up. House scoffed. "Come _on_, Wilson," he whined. "It's _never_ lupus. Haven't I taught you _anything _in all our years together?" Wilson sighed. "I don't know, House, I have my own patients to worry about." "_Yeah_," House said in a tone meant to annoy Wilson. "But it's not like you have to _diagnose_ anything. 'Oh, cancer, cancer, you have cancer; sorry, guess what, _you have cancer_.' " House stood up and acted it out, using his cane to gesture at some innocent people who were just trying to enjoy their lunch. Most of them glared at House angrily. Wilson looked around. "Sorry," he apologized loudly. "_House_ is just being himself. _Sit,_" he commanded in House's direction.

"But _honey_," House whined loudly, causing everyone to shuffle awkwardly. "House," Wilson complained, resting his head in his hands and rubbing his face. "Stop it." House made a sound of annoyance and picked a French fry off of Wilson's nearly-empty lunch tray. "House, if you're done eating _my_ lunch, I have patients to see," Wilson said. "You really don't mind," House said smugly. "If you did, you'd stop buying lunch and letting me sit with you. You're too nice," he finished with a wag of his eyebrows. _Shows how much you know, House, _Wilson thought to himself. "Well, I'm off," is what he said out loud, and Wilson picked up the tray and got rid of the garbage.

"Fine, go, if you think your cancer patients are more important than me curing this guy," House called out. "I_ know_ they are, House," Wilson threw back in the diagnostician's direction. He smiled, picturing the scowl that he knew would be etched on House's face right then. He wandered back to the oncology department and stopped at the nurses' desk.

"Give me John's file, please," Wilson asked the nurse at the desk. "Of course, Doctor Wilson," the nurse said and handed over the papers. "Thanks." Wilson walked leisurely over to John's room and let himself in. _Gotta make this work_. Wilson knew he'd only have one chance to get it right. "Oh my God!" he yelled out the door. "He's dead! _Can I get a nurse in here_?"


	4. Sign Here

**A/N: Welcome to chapter 4. Will update as soon as I can. Keep reading, and don't forget to review!**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

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Several nurses, in fact, came running into the room. They took one look at the man, halfheartedly checked for pulse and breathing, and shook their heads. Wilson sighed, making a big show of looking sad, like a lost puppy. The women patted him on the back. "Sorry, Doctor," they said. "It happens to everyone." "Yeah," Wilson said mournfully. "I guess so. I just didn't think it would happen so quickly." _Of course I did! Fooled you!_ "Can you guys leave me for a moment? He didn't have any family, and I want to write down the time of death and everything." "Sure," the nurses chorused immediately, giving small sad smiles to Wilson as they walked out. One of them gently shut the door.

_Okay, gotta do this fast. You only get one shot, Jimmy- you can do it!_ Wilson hurried around the room, closing the blinds, drawing back the sheets, doing everything a doctor would normally do for a dead patient. He checked the man again, just to be sure he was really dead. Someone knocked on the door, and Wilson jumped a little, then collected himself and went to open the door. It was a rather sympathetic man.

"Hiya," said the man. "I'm here to take a Mister…John Devereaux down to the morgue? You maim 'em, we claim 'em," the guy joked with a nasty little grin. Wilson went white. "You alright there? Ya look like you've seen a ghost," the man said, his smile faltering only a little. "That's _not funny_," Wilson growled, "Not at all." "Hey man, chill out! I was just kidding around. It's not like there are many yuks in our line of work, ya know?" the man said, backing up a little and shaking slightly. Wilson looked rather angry. "Look, just let me take care of him, alright? He was…very dear to me, and I'll be the one to do things that concern _him_."

"Th-that's cool, man," the man from the morgue said. "But look, I'm really supposed to be the one who- " "Here," Wilson interrupted, pulling a wad of money out of his pocket. "Take this. I'll handle this guy. Go get lunch, or something." "Hey, thanks, man!" the guy exclaimed. "You know I'll be using this up fast! But, are you sure you don't mind- " "No, please, it's really okay," Wilson said. "This job is…rather special to me." _More than you know._ "But, ah, would you mind just signing the appropriate forms for me, so that the guys down there know you at least _saw_ the body?" "Sure, man, be glad to," the guy looked rather relieved. Wilson held out a pen, and the man flipped through the forms carelessly, signing in all the right places. He tipped his hat to Wilson once, then left.

Wilson sighed in relief once the doors were slid shut again. "Finally," he murmured, and attached the straps on the bed so that the body wouldn't move as he rolled it through the halls. He reached down and stroked the cold cheek once, then pulled the sheet up to cover the face. He unlocked the wheels and began rolling the bed out into the hall.


	5. Thankless Job

**A/N: Whoa, guys, sorry this took so long to get up, I thought I had already done it and just realized I only had 4 chapters uploaded. The good news is, I'm working on chapter 6 right now, so I'll likely have it up tonight as well. By the way, yes, my chapter title comes from the movie "Repo! The Genetic Opera". Which I don't own.**

**I've been to the shore, but I'm not David Shore, so I don't own House. **

**Please review, and enjoy!**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

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Wilson amassed numerous sympathetic stares as he rolled the bed down to the morgue. _Save it, maggots._ He was busy nodding at one of the nurses who _wouldn't stop staring at him_ when a certain Dean of Medicine caught up with him. "Wilson, what are you doing?" Cuddy asked with a frown "I pay good money for _other_ people to bring the bodies down to the morgue so doctors like you can _fix patients._" "I know, he was just…special to me," Wilson explained. "Wilson, you know doctors can't afford to get attached, especially oncologists like you," Cuddy sighed, but then her face softened and she put a hand on Wilson's shoulder.

"I know how you feel," she said softly. "Take him down to the morgue, but then come right back up," she said. Unexpectedly, she pulled him into a hug. "It's no fault of yours," the Dean told Wilson, "It happens to the best doctors." "Thanks," Wilson said with a small smile. _Oh, shut up. Just let me go already. _Cuddy nodded her ascent, and Wilson once more began walking steadily towards the morgue. Nurses continued to make small noises off to the side, but Wilson found he could ignore them for the most part, pretending to be sad.

He _finally_ made it downstairs, and stepped into the morgue with his macabre delivery. "Hello?" he called quietly. It was pretty late in the day, and no one was there. "Okay," Wilson whispered. _This is it._ He walked over to the desk, where a slip of paper could be found telling him to put any new bodies into one of the empty rooms for study tomorrow. Wilson walked over to one of the freezers that he knew had an already-studied body in it, and opened it, studying the body. He looked back at Devereaux's body and made a snap decision.

Wilson pulled the tag off the freezer body, and wrote up a new tag quickly. There was one thing that was different about the tag, however: It was labeled with Devereaux's name and stats. Wilson, as a doctor, was authorized to write up death certificates, and he made one for Devereaux, placing it in the appropriate pile. For the other body, the one he took the tag from, he booted up the computer and found the body logs. He entered a log stating that the body had been buried and was take care of. No one would check until tomorrow, and that was fine with Wilson. Next, he placed Devereaux's tag on the body, and wheeled Devereaux himself into the autopsy room.

Wilson figured he had at least ten minutes. He grabbed a scalpel, cleaned his hands, and scrubbed up.

Wilson unstrapped the body and made the initial Y-shaped incision that was standard in any autopsy. He went to work, removing the useful organs. Moving quickly, knowing that if he was too slow they'd be unviable for sale. He finished with a liver, two lungs, two kidneys, and spinal fluid, not to mention lots of soft tissue.

Once the viable organs were out and safe, Wilson let out some breath he didn't know he had been holding. He peeled off his gloves, changed out of his scrubs, and washed his hands again. He shivered in apprehension and went off to find some jars for the body parts.


	6. Scratch My Back

**A/N: What did I tell ya? Welcome to chapter 6! I like this one, but I'm not sure about the characterization- let me know what you think, tell me if it's a little too OOC. I mean, Wilson's kinda supposed to be OOC, but I'm trying to keep in character for House. So review and let me know. If you don't, Wilson will come get you...just kidding! But seriously. **

**I don't own [H]ouse, M.D. or affiliated characters.**

**~LoverBoyWonder**

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Wilson put the organs into storage, making sure they'd keep. He pulled out his phone and began a new message, entering a number for which there was no contact information. _I've got new material,_ he typed. _Pickup ASAP._ He hesitated a moment, then hit send. He'd been doing this for a while, so it was no big deal to do it again. He had no idea who his contact was; he only knew it was someone in the underworld. Wilson had tried to trace, the phone number, but, not being a professional, he wasn't able to get very far. He had no idea what the contact looked like, sounded like, or where they were at any given time. It was an intricate setup and a little bit frightening, but Wilson told himself that if he was scared he shouldn't have gone into black-market deals in the first place.

It had begun when Wilson's third ex-wife, Julie, _needed_ a new car. Of course, Wilson didn't have the money, but he was _in love_. So he said he could get the money. Wilson remembered exactly what happened: Julie had laughed, thrown her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek. Wilson had gone to the hospital the next day and saw an opportunity: euthanasia. He killed a patient, removed any and all viable body parts, and sold them to a black-market contact that another doctor had once told him about, who gave Wilson twenty percent of the profits plus a "finder's fee" and any expenses he might have accumulated, including reimbursement for the cost of morphine. All in all, it was a pretty sweet deal.

Wilson had to be careful, though; obviously, he couldn't go killing patients left and right. Someone- Cuddy- would notice. So he kept it down to a minimum of maybe one or two deaths per month, perhaps three if he thought he could swing it. Lately, however, it was getting more and more difficult because Cuddy was always on his case, House was always at his heels, and the nurses were always present in the background. But it wasn't like Wilson needed the money anymore, though it _did_ pay _extremely_ well. Wilson mostly did it for fun now. _That's right_, he admitted to himself, _killing helpless old patients gives you a thrill._ Wilson was sure that if he let himself sit down and think about what he was doing, he would feel sorry. But he always put off that inner conversation, afraid of what he would do if he looked inside and realized he wasn't sorry.

Wilson's phone vibrated, and Wilson jumped. _Fast response,_ he thought, impressed. He flipped the phone open and read the message. It was short and to-the-point, something Wilson appreciated. _Good job,_ it read. _Will come pick up tonight. Label as usual. Don't worry about locked doors. Payment coming tomorrow. _Wilson read the message again, holding back the flood of questions he wanted to ask. If something went wrong, he could always double-cross his contact and feign ignorance. He texted back an affirmative response, then snapped the phone shut, slid it into his pocket, and went to work labeling the jars of organs and tissue. He whistled as he worked.

He was just about to slide a label onto the last jar when he felt a pair of eyes watching him. Wilson straightened up, recognizing the gaze that emanated from a pair of ice blue eyes before he actually saw them. He turned around to see House staring at him steadily, arms crossed, cane dangling at his side. Wilson's heart jumped into his throat; his pulse was so loud in his ears that he was surprised House couldn't hear it.

"Hey, Wilson," House said eventually. "I wanted a consult. Cuddy said you might be down here. I didn't realize you work in the morgue now." Wilson's face colored a deep pink, the oncologist feeling the blood rush to the surface of his skin. "I don't, House," he said, trying to keep his voice strong and clear. "So, what are you doing then?" House asked evenly, his face not betraying any of what he might be thinking. Wilson was starting to sweat. "Nothing, just…doing…things," he finished lamely. "Sure. Things," House repeated with a twist of his mouth. "Lemme see that jar." He gestured at the container Wilson was holding with his cane.

"House," Wilson said warningly. "Let me just put this away and I'll come up and help you." "Nuh-uh," House said like a petulant child. "I can't get up the stairs by myself. I might fall and get hurt. Disabled, remember?" He waggled the cane in front of Wilson's face. Wilson sighed. "House," he tried to reason. "Just…give me one minute to label this. Please." "You can label it with me standing here," House said reasonably. "Come on. What could you possibly be doing? And if you're a closet necrophiliac, I want to know." The jibe sounded as light-hearted as always, but House's eyes had narrowed, and he knew Wilson well enough to know when he was hiding something. Wilson knew that too, and accepted defeat with a grumbled "Fine."

Wilson turned his back to House and finished with the jar, writing "LIVER" in large letters on the label. Wilson turned around and almost had a heart attack when he saw House's face inches from his own. "House! Do you _want_ to scare me to death?" Wilson glared at the diagnostician. "Sorry," House said, not sounding sorry at all. He reached out and grabbed the liver from Wilson, examining the contents clinically. "A fresh liver? Done any autopsies recently, Wilson?" House asked with raised brows. "No, it was…lying around!" Wilson tried to make his voice strong, but the last bit of his statement came out in what was _definitely_ a squeak. And of course, House noticed it. _Damn._

"Wilson," said House softly. Dangerously. Wilson stared back defiantly. "So I did an autopsy. I'm allowed." "No, you're not," House breathed. "So why…" his eyes settled on the neat stacks of jars with Wilson's newest wares preserved inside of them. "Oh," he said, sounding pleased with himself. "Are you _selling_ organs from your dead patients?" Wilson closed his eyes and counted to ten in his head. _Maybe he'll just go away,_ Wilson hoped. "Wilson," House said, voice infused with steel. "Yeah," Wilson said finally, leveling his gaze with House's. "Yeah, I am. Does that…scare you?" He allowed a smile to pull up his mouth and show the tips of his canines. It was almost grotesque, but House didn't say anything, just stared back at him evenly.

"No, it doesn't scare me," the diagnostician said finally. "But. I'm assuming you _don't_ want this information all over the hospital." Wilson just raised an eyebrow in response. House took a breath and continued, "If you don't give me a cut of at least fifty percent, I'll tell Cuddy everything." Wilson narrowed his eyes and considered it. "Why?" he asked House after a minute. House just shrugged. "My job's boring," he said flippantly. "And I could use some more money anyway." Wilson thought about it some more, and acquiesced. "Fine," he told House grudgingly. "But no more than fifty percent. And if you tell anyone…" Wilson looked around for a minute before picking up the bloody scalpel he had just used for the autopsy. He whirled and pressed it to House's throat. "_I will kill you,_" he whispered to the older doctor.

House didn't flinch. "I'm already a cripple," he snorted. "And please. You couldn't kill a fly." Wilson made the mistake of glancing in the direction of the autopsy room, and House sucked in a breath. _"You killed them,_" he whispered, fear creeping into the edges of his voice at last with the new understanding, along with perhaps a bit of awe. "_That's right,_" Wilson whispered. His voice was both as deadly as the scalpel he wielded and a little bit proud; after all, it was a big achievement. "But you're in this now," he told House. "So there's no backing out." House nodded after a hesitation, and then shook his head as if to clear it. "Right," he said, "So what do we do now?" He motioned to the body parts in containers on the shelf. "Nothing," Wilson replied. "My contact will come pick them up tonight." "Who are they, and how do they get in?" House asked at once, and his eyes shone with a sort of curiosity. "…It's better not to know," Wilson said, and House understood.

"Alright," House said with an air of cheer. "So how 'bout that consult, Jimmy boy?" Wilson growled and began stalking back up the stairs into the falling darkness of the hospital with House chattering behind him. _There's no backing out._ Wilson's statement to House echoed in the air around them, and he couldn't shake off the shadows of the morgue until he fell asleep that night.


End file.
